


i'd set out so long before

by DuskDragon39



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Body Horror, But maybe it turns out okay anyways, Canon-Typical Doors (The Magnus Archives), Death, Horror, Ignoring the apocalypse and the fact that things are kinda screwed up, Implied/Referenced Violence, Madness/Insanity, Other, Post-Apocalypse, The End, The Spiral, aka the author has extensive feelings about ocs, in hopes of making it go away, it doesn't work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:27:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21995977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DuskDragon39/pseuds/DuskDragon39
Summary: You'd seen them and known that you were going to die.
Relationships: Original Character & Original Character
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	i'd set out so long before

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [you can't spell anything i talk about](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21926200) by [sunshine_states](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshine_states/pseuds/sunshine_states). 



> Sunshine_State's story got me thinking, and then I had an idea about an avatar of the End and then this happened. In my defense, it was midnight, and I was high on sleep deprivation.  
> It's probably only vaguely a result of me procrastinating on scholarship applications.  
> Probably.  
> If I need to tag anything else, please let me know.

You remember the first time you’d seen your friend and known you were going to die. 

* * *

The world changed- from normal to something else, spiraling colors and eyes that watched and fear, fear, fear- and you sat and prayed that they’d be alright. They called you once, on the phone. 

“I’m okay,” they said. “I promise, I’m okay.”

“Okay,” you said, because there was nothing else you could say. “I’ll see you soon, alright?”

“See you soon. Stay safe.” 

The phone hung up with a click. It was just two miles, you told yourself. Just two miles. What could happen in two miles? Nothing. That’s what. Sure, everything had gone weird, but that was no reason for something to happen. They knew what they were doing. They knew how to keep the blankets over their head and their thoughts normal, safe from the eyes that were watching you. They’d be fine. 

An hour went by. Two. Four hours stretched into five, into six, into twelve. You called them. 

“This user is not available,” sang the answering machine. “Please call back and try again or leave a message after the beep.”

You did. 

You sent them a text message. _Please. I’m worried about you. Please answer me. Please. Please. Please._

No response. 

Your mind whirled. Something had to have happened to them. You could see them falling into the sky, being swallowed up by rot or by the pothole that had grown teeth outside. What if they were still out there, being slowly devoured by the buried? They could be in danger- they could be there, right now, calling for you, and you weren’t there-

You pulled on your shoes, not even stopping to put on socks. You had to check. You ran past your sister’s room, not stopping to tell her where you were going or to smell whatever it was she was burning. There was a new door in your kitchen. You ignored it. You had to check. 

Your doorstep was deeper than you were used to. You ignored it, pulled open the door, and tripped out into empty air. You screamed once, and then your face slammed into the concrete, leaving you with nothing but quiet darkness. 

When you woke, it was still dark. This time, however, it was absence-of-light-dark, not the silky darkness of the Forever Blind or the soft darkness of unconsciousness. You relaxed, somewhat. Cool night air rushed over and you pushed yourself to your feet, fighting through a rush of dizziness and multi-colored lights.

A hand reached out, steadying you, cool and soft and bone-white pale. You looked up, met the eyes of your friend, and were awash with relief and- this was it, the end, it had found you, it was here, and you were going to die. 

* * *

“It was easy,” they tell you once. “Like falling down a tree, knowing that you’re going to hit the bottom, and knowing that there’s nothing you can do to stop it.” You wince at the metaphor, and they grin.

“Did you have to?” you ask.

“Did I have to what? Use that metaphor? Or fall for the End?” 

You don’t have an answer for that. 

Another time they ask you about the doors that sometimes appear in your house. You always ignore them, pass them by or stack boxes and laundry baskets up against them. If you couldn’t see them, they weren’t there, after all. (And wasn’t that a form of madness in and of itself?)

You just looked at them, and they wince. Nod. “Right,” they say. “Sorry.”

You never ask each other again. 

You look upon them, and you know that you’re going to die. You know it the same way that you once knew the sky was blue, that your sister was a lovable asshole, that your best friend was a little bit strange, a little bit queer, and lot a bit kind. You know it the same way you know what’s behind those doors- (whirling lights and dizzying spirals and corridors that never end and are always what you need them to be)- the way you’ll never know what’s behind them.

They are the End, of you, of yours, of everything you’ve ever been, and you look upon them and weep. 

“Please don’t cry,” they ask you once. “Can't we just- live, instead?” 

So you do. You both do. You curl close to each other at night, and you ignore when they come back with two hollow sockets for eyes, holding the winning hand of a poker game. You ignore the way your doors follow you around the house, the way they’ve taken to carrying around a purse full of padlocks. You ignore the all-too-visible bones of their hands and their face, and they ignore the light that sometimes seeps into your eyes, twisting your hands and bones and body into something not-of-this-world. (You know whose world it is, you don’t think, and continue doing the laundry.)

You ignore it, you live with it, and slowly you adapt. You move out of your parent’s home, away from your little sister and the fish-with-too-many-teeth. (Your cat, thankfully, comes with you). You take your doors and your hands and they take their bones and their scythe. You take each other. You grow. They start working with a mortician, and you continue pursuing a master's in English.

You live.

One day, you know that you’ll look upon them and see nothing but Death in their eyes or in the deck of cards they procure after dinner. One day you know that you’ll open that door and never look back, and they’ll come in after you, death conquered by twisted madness and spiraling corridors. 

You are the end of each other, bound and twisted into something greater than the sum of its parts. 

For now though- 

“When are you coming home?” you ask. 

“An hour,” they reply, and you can hear the smile in their voice, even through the tinny speakers. “I’ll see you in an hour, alright?”

“Okay,” you say, because that’s all you can say. “I’ll see you soon.”

"Stay-"

"- safe. I know," you finish, and there's a smile tugging at your lips too. They laugh and hang up, and you turn back to your term paper, feel the cat brush against your legs and hear the probably-pantry-door creak comfortingly in the silence. 

It's enough.


End file.
